Her head came up at the sharp whistle, a warning from her coachman that someone was approaching. She listened as Mr. Royles called out a greeting and her man replied. Such courtly manners for the dirty business that was about to take place.
There was a knock on the door of the coach.
“Are you in there, poppet?” Mr. Royles inquired, the slight slur in his voice revealing his whereabouts this evening.
“Enter.”
She remained seated, preferring that he come to her. Instead of wearing a half-mask this evening, she had donned a black veil to conceal her face. She was striving for anonymity, and Madame Venna’s attire was too memorable for midnight adventures.
“Good evening, my girl,” Royles said cheerfully as he removed his hat. “Dressed for a funeral, are you?”
She slowly raised the veil and adjusted it so she could see him without the hindrance. “I thought you would appreciate a peek at what I shall be wearing to yours in what I pray is the near future.”
Royles chuckled and shook his head. He grabbed the leather strap and used it to pull himself into the interior of the coach. “And will you mourn me when I pass?”
Madame Venna’s eyes hardened as she stared at the man who had terrified her as a child. “You’ll have to look to your wife if you want someone to shed a tear or two at your grave.”
“And here I thought you might give me lodgings while I’m in town. After all, we are family.”
Old rage rose up in her breast, and she had to fight the urge to curl her lip in contempt. “You are no kin of mine. A fact I get down on my knees nightly and thank my maker for.”
Martin Royles huffed. “If you’re on your knees at all, it is to spread your thighs so men can rut and spill themselves into your wicked body.”
“When you return to Mrs. Royles, you can tell her all about the depravity I’ve been up to since I left her watchful eye. She always did pride herself on being in the right,” she said drily.
It mattered little that she had been judged by the Royles long before she had lost her virginity. Besides, she suspected Mr. Royles lusted after her wealth rather than her sullied body. Her nose wrinkled as the stench of unwashed clothes and stale urine filled the small compartment. “Shall we get down to business?”
“In a hurry to return to your flesh palace?”
“Naturally. This business of blackmail tends to turn my stomach, and I have yet to enjoy my supper,” she said smoothly.
Madame Venna picked up the leather drawstring purse and heaved it at Mr. Royles’s chest. The impact caused him to grunt, but he managed to secure the purse with both hands.
“I trust this will suffice for your silence.”
Mr. Royles tugged on the opening and pulled out a coin. He held it up to the lantern and grinned, exposing a missing eyetooth. “Aye, this will do, poppet. For a time, that is.”
“For your sake, make it a long while, Mr. Royles. If you ruin my business, there will be no point in paying you to keep my secrets.”
“Have you forgotten who is in charge?”
“Not in the slightest.” The corners of her mouth curled into an unpleasant smile as she revealed the pocket pistol she had been concealing. Ignoring his curse, she aimed it directly at his black heart. “I am willing to be generous because I have unfinished business in London and I am not prepared to leave as of yet. However, mark my words, Mr. Royles. There will come a day when your silence will no longer be necessary.”
“You wouldn’t pull that trigger on an unarmed man.”
“You would be amazed what I would be willing to do to protect myself,” she said, her finger tightening on the trigger. “Don’t try my patience. Such a miscalculation regarding my daring or affection for you would be quite fatal.”
Chapter Fourteen
After her encounter with Martin Royles, Catherine was eager to shed her Madame Venna guise and spend the day running errands and doing mundane tasks. She found herself relaxing as she mixed with the masses and conducted business with merchants. Catherine lived simply, albeit comfortably. There was no reason why she could not enjoy her wealth without calling attention to it.
If given a choice, she would spend her days and nights as Catherine Deverall. Her neighbors and the merchants treated her with respect. She had no past. Her present was filled with good deeds and charity, a small penance she had placed upon herself for the decadently wicked life Madame Venna lived. There were no men in Catherine’s life to tempt her. Her modest terrace house might as well be a nunnery. No carnal acts or depraved vices had ever sullied her bed. As for the future, only one fact was certain. Her life in London would eventually come to an end.
And with her departure, the Golden Pearl would close or be sold to another. Catherine’s heart clenched painfully just contemplating it. She and Madame Venna were united in sorrow at the notion of shutting the Golden Pearl’s doors. Nevertheless, Catherine knew Martin Royles was a foreshadowing of troubling times. As much as she loved being Madame Venna, the woman knew too many secrets, and that made her dangerous to others.
Then there were Lord Greenshield and Lady Eyre.
Her parents. As far as she knew, Lady Eyre was unaware that her long-forgotten daughter was alive and living in London. Lord Greenshield, on the other hand, was becoming a problem. Catherine had turned away his solicitor several times, but the man was determined to have an audience.
Well, the man had a long wait ahead of him.
Catherine refused to speak to him or any other person who represented Lord Greenshield’s interests. She had nothing to say to the man who had cast his child away, allowing her to be raised by people like the Royleses. She suspected that her sire was prepared to bribe her, hoping she would leave London for greener pastures.
However, her loyalties or her silence could not be bought. If Lord Greenshield persisted, she would do something reckless—like reveal to the ton that the earl’s lost daughter was none other than the proprietress of the Golden Pearl. The news would be scandalous. Lady Eyre had a husband and children. Both she and Lord Greenshield would be ridiculed, and she would be ruined as well, but not in the same manner.
The odds were still in her favor—just the way she preferred them. In the end, her parents had more to lose than she did. Satisfied with her opinion, she smiled graciously at the gentleman who tipped his hat respectfully as she passed. Although there was no recognition in his gaze, she recognized the man as one of the Golden Pearl’s patrons.
As Catherine discreetly glanced over her shoulder to see if he was watching her, she collided into a solid wall that turned out to be the rather nicely muscled chest of a male pedestrian. The books tucked under her arms scattered like startled birds.
She gasped as familiar hands reached out to steady her. Otherwise she would have fallen quite inelegantly on her backside. It was Lord Sainthill grinning down at her rosy countenance. In all the years she had walked these streets as she ran her numerous errands, she had never encountered him.
Recovering quickly, she stepped back and curtsied. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I pray you are not injured.”
The demure inclination of her head was just a precaution. Her clear gray eyes were memorable, but she was confident the marquess would not connect a stranger on the street with Madame Venna. Her gray eyes tended to reflect the colors of the masks that she wore. Even if Sainthill had noted the color of the proprietress of the Golden Pearl’s eyes, the hue varied, depending on the light.
“I’m unharmed, dear lady,” he said politely as she felt his gaze on her face. “However, your books…”
Ah, yes, the books she had been carrying. Catherine had been returning them to the subscription library just ahead. “I hope they have not been damaged, since they are on loan,” she said with dismay.
At the same time, she and Sainthill bent down to retrieve the three books. Her forehead connected with his chin. Laughing at her clumsiness, she straightened and met his gaze. She recognized
the male appreciation in his warm blue eyes as well as the humor over their awkward encounter.
“Allow me.”
Catherine stood, observing Sainthill while he gathered her books.
“A little dusty, but no damage done,” he said cheerfully. He shuffled through the books. “Ambrosio; or, The Monk: A Romance by M. G. Lewis, the first tome of Laurent Pierre Bérenger’s Poésies, and The Works of Lucian … the Greek satirist?”
“Yes,” she replied, annoyed that he was surprised by her choice of books. She swallowed her sharp retort as she recalled that Sainthill did not recognize her. He was merely being condescending to all women. “Give me the books. I was returning them to the subscription library.”
He did not offer her the books. “I have insulted you.”
“Not at all.”
“I have, and I wish to make amends by escorting you to your destination.”
“That is unnecessary.” She nodded in the direction of the library. “I do not wish to inconvenience you, when you were clearly heading in the opposite direction.”
“My lady—”
She cut him off. “Miss. Miss Deverall.”
“Miss Deverall, I find myself in an awkward quandary,” he said as he kept pace with her. “Clearly I have insulted an intelligent and extraordinarily beautiful woman, and she believes I’m an uncivilized arse.”
Catherine fought not to smile, but it was a battle that she quickly lost. Lord Sainthill was charming, even if he was an arse. “There is no need to apologize.”
“But I must,” he said, his handsome face shining with sincerity. “I probably gave you the impression that I was mocking your choice of books.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“My feelings are quite the opposite, I assure you.” He opened the door to the circulating library and waited for her to cross the threshold. “I have great admiration for intelligent women.”
“Truly?” she said, trying to recall a day when the notorious Marquess of Sainthill was pursuing females because of their scholarly pursuits. The attributes he generally appreciated were below the neck. “Thank you for your assistance. You may give me my books.”
“Miss Deverall, it is good to see you again,” a gentleman called out from across the room.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence.” Catherine looked expectantly at her companion. “The books.”
“I have been remiss in introducing myself.” He extended the books to her. “I am Saint.”
She bit back a smile as she accepted the books. “Surely, you jest.”
He seemed perplexed by her response. “It is short for Sainthill. Marquess of Sainthill, to be precise.”
“And are you always precise, Lord Sainthill?” She turned away to address the clerk. “Mr. Lawrence, your recommendations the other week were quite enjoyable. Do you have another package for me?”
“Yes, yes, I do, Miss Deverall.” He nodded to Lord Sainthill before he disappeared behind one of the long counters.
“You do not believe me?” Sainthill whispered in her ear.
“That you’re burdened with the name Saint? Of course I do,” she said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the sleeve. “I will wager you have spent your entire life trying to live down such a taxing nickname.”
One side of his mouth curled up in an endearing, almost boyish, manner. “Guilty.” He braced his forearm along the surface of the table and studied her. “Why have we never met, Miss Deverall?”
Sainthill scowled as the clerk reappeared.
“Here it is, Miss Deverall,” Mr. Lawrence said, handing her another selection of books that he had wrapped in cloth and secured with string. “I hope you will approve.”
“I am certain I will.” She exchanged her books for the new ones. “Good day, Mr. Lawrence. I will see you next week.”
“Good day, Miss Deverall.”
Sainthill fell into step with her. “How long have you been in London?”
“Years,” she said breezily, seeing no reason why she could not tell him the truth. She paused, waiting for him to open the door. As much as she enjoyed their exchange, she had no business conversing with the marquess. While Madame Venna had many rules, Catherine had only one—and that was to keep her and Madame Venna’s lives separate. Except for a few close friends who knew her before she opened the Golden Pearl, Catherine’s world never intersected with Madame Venna’s.
It should not astound her that Saint had managed to meet her as Catherine. The gentleman had a way of complicating her life, even if he was not aware of it.
“Then why have we not met, Miss Deverall?”
She gave him a look of disbelief. “I doubt we move in the same circles, Lord Sainthill,” she said drily.
“Well, that is about to change.”
She laughed at his bold declaration. “Now I know why they call you Saint.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you have a bad habit of trying a person’s patience, even a saint’s.” As he floundered for a proper response, she was already a few steps ahead of him. “Good day to you, Lord Sainthill. I would say it was a pleasure meeting you, but I suspect it is dangerous for a lady to compliment you.”
“Why?” he all but growled.
“Otherwise, I will never get rid of you.” She glanced over her shoulder and offered him a winsome smile. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
He did not pursue her. Standing his ground, he said, “We will meet again, Miss Deverall.”
Catherine raised her hand in farewell. She was annoyed to see that her hand was shaking. Just nerves, she assured herself. This unexpected encounter with Sainthill had disconcerted her, but she had handled it brilliantly. The marquess would never trouble her again.
Unfortunately, Madame Venna could not make the same claim.
* * *
Saint followed Miss Deverall at a leisurely pace. So confident was she in her dismissal of him that she did not bother to look back. Infuriatingly oblivious to him, he thought to his chagrin. His looks were appealing to women. Women might not pursue him like they had Sin before his marriage to Juliana, or even Frost and Hunter, but he never been quite so resistible to a lady. A part of him wanted to dash after her and demand what was so damn unappealing about him that she spent most of their conversation averting her gaze to any direction other than where he stood.
It was humbling.
He laughed at his own foolishness. Saint had not sought out Miss Deverall because he was seeking a new mistress. He had arranged this accidental encounter to meet the lady to figure out how she might be connected to Madame Venna. Unfortunately, he still did not have an answer to his unspoken question.
Was Miss Deverall in danger?
Perhaps it would be wise to keep an eye on the independent young woman. Whether or not he was willing to admit it, he was looking forward to verbally sparring with the lady again.
Chapter Fifteen
“Your self-discipline is admirable.”
Saint accepted the glass of brandy from Hunter, favoring it over the tepid champagne that was being offered by Lord and Lady Durrant. He sipped from the glass before he replied, “For not walking out the door? If not for Lady Netherley’s polite request to attend the gathering, I might have turned on my heels the second I noticed Lady Durrant was wearing a goose for a hat.”
Hunter’s dimples showed as he struggled not to laugh. “Not a goose, you arse. It’s a damn swan.”
Saint shrugged. “Damned more like it. Difficult to tell since it smothered itself by sitting on its head.”
His Grace tipped back his head and laughed, drawing attention from the other guests. “Swan kills itself on Lady Durrant’s head. Witty and brilliant, my friend, but you might want to keep your opinion to yourself. Lord Durrant has already tossed out several guests for frowning at his lady.”
“Then there is still hope for this evening.” Saint sobered as a thought struck him. “Now that Vane is married to Isabel, do you think Lady Netherley has set her sights o
n us?”
“Perhaps you and Frost, but not I,” Hunter said, finishing his brandy. “My grandmother has already meddled and ruined my life. May God rest her soul.”
Saint pitied his friend, though he was careful not to allow his true feelings to show in his expression. “You’ve been running from this for most of your life. Have you ever considered that your grandmother might be looking out for your best interests?”
“No, because she was looking after her own interests, and those of the family” was Hunter’s bitter reply.
“Even with his mother’s meddling, Vane is very happy with Isabel. You might—”
Hunter stabbed his finger in Saint’s face. “If you finish that sentence, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Wisely, Saint swallowed his retort while he sought to change the subject. “You remarked about my restraint. Since you were not referring to this tedious gathering, what were you talking about?”
“The Golden Pearl.” His friend nodded knowingly. “You’ve stayed away.”
True, Saint had not returned to the Golden Pearl since Madame Venna had revealed Lord Perry’s most private secrets, but he had not been deliberately avoiding the place. “How would you know?”
Hunter winked. “Clearly, I have not.”
Frost startled both of them by coming up from behind and positioning himself in the middle as he laid his arms across their shoulders. “What are we discussing?”
It was on the tip of Saint’s tongue to tell his friend to tend his own business when Hunter replied, “We were discussing Saint’s absence from the Golden Pearl.”
“Ah, the Golden Pearl.” Frost dropped his arms to his sides as he shouldered past his friends and turned around. “I have been remiss in paying my respects to the charming mistress of the establishment. How is the fair Madame Venna?”
Oblivious to Saint’s glare, Hunter said, “Beautiful and elusive as always. Mulcaster has been trying to lure her into his bed.”
Saint’s jaw clenched at the mention of Lord Mulcaster. Perhaps he was being unreasonable, but he did not want the earl anywhere near Madame Venna.
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 9
